


A Biological Imperative (temporary title)

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes has never liked children. Children are messy, noisy, unintelligent creatures. They are tyrants who demand your time and attention, and get in life-threatening situations on a daily basis as if their life goal is to elevate your blood pressure. Then they grow up to hate you and refuse to have anything to do with you. They are, in Mycroft's opinion, the prime example of why caring is not an advantage.</p><p>So after an old...acquaintance...dies, leaving behind a five-year-old boy who may or may not be Mycroft's biological child, he refuses to have anything to do with the boy.</p><p>He has many reasons, some of them even good ones, but there is only one that matters: No child of a 'minor government official' will ever be safe.</p><p>None of his reasons include not /wanting/ a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Biological Imperative (temporary title)

Mycroft sinks into his armchair, luxuriating in its sinfully soft grip. With a soundless sigh, he closes his eyes and lets the room's silence wash over him. 

He thinks, not for the first time, that establishing Diogenes was the best idea he ever had, and that was quite a tall order for a man who single-handedly averts wars on a regular basis. Although perhaps the fact that he does so is entirely why the club is necessary. 

By Queen and Country, he loves his job, but on days like these he sorely needs reprieve from the incessant prattering of politicians. Dealing with foreign dignitaries is not unlike wrangling children – noisy, self-important children who constantly demand attention (not dissimilar to raising Sherlock, an experience that Mycroft, and his ulcer, would not care to repeat) – and by day's end Mycroft is often ready to have the whole lot of them assassinated.

Mycroft leaves all of that at the door, irritation and worries falling free the second he steps over the threshold. Diogenes is an oasis of silence and serenity, a world of it's own that is cut off from the frantic noise of life, a safe haven where real-world responsibilities are superseded by simple relaxation. Here, one can revel in silent companionship with his fellow patrons, the peace unmarred by speech. If the word were part of his vocabulary, then Mycroft might call the club a venue of escape. 

In here, silence reigns supreme, and Mycroft is its willing subordinate. Thick walls cocoon each room, insulating them from the world's noise as well as dampening the sounds within. The rooms are filled with chairs and sofas of the softest caliber, paired against tables gloved with fine cloths. Everything sits atop plush carpet, the thick material absorbing each footstep and never betraying a single sound of movement. 

Thus, Mycroft, eyes closed, teeters on the brink of blissful tranquility, completely unaware of the small boy who is creeping into his sanctuary.

* * *

Darting behind a particularly large armchair, little Alexander peers out, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight. If Mycroft could see him, he would know that the boy is of a common class, unaccustomed to seeing such rich splendor on display. Were his eyes open, he could deduce that the boy was searching for someone, and that the care with which the boy studies each man's face would indicate that he wasn't wholly familiar with the object of his quest. But as it is, Mycroft's eyes remain unopened, unseeing, so the boy sees him first. 

To the five-year-old, all the men in the room look more or less the same – tall, scary-looking men clad in the same funny-looking outfit, their faces old and lined, the sparse patches of hair on their heads reminiscent of dry grass. 

But when his eyes land on Mycroft, he lights up like a Christmas tree. With an excited little bounce, he cranes his head forward for a better look. 

He recognizes that face – the piercing, deep set eyes, pale thin lips, and hooked, too-large nose. Miss Emily, his caseworker, had given him a photo, and Alexander had spent hours studying it and comparing it to his own face in the mirror. At the time, he had been torn between grateful (that he hadn't inherited that witch-like nose but did share the blue-laced gray eye color) and worry (there wasn't much resemblance – would his dad still want him?). He finds that his father looks much better in person, the photographic stiffness of his face replaced with intelligence and dignified authority, powerfully present even in sleep. 

Mycroft's skin prickles, a soft tingle beneath his skin that informed him he was being watched. The sensation rouses him reluctantly from his calmed state. 

* * *

He creaks open one eye, surveying the room through slitted lids. When he spots the intruder, he frowns, brows furrowing in bemusement. What on earth is a child doing in here? And why hasn't anyone removed him yet? 

The obvious conclusion would be that the boy is a club member's child, but Mycroft dismisses the thought as soon as it arises. He knows the details of every patron, their families, their careers, everything down to their dog's birthday – it's inconceivable that one of them would have a son he doesn't recognize. Furthermore, the boy is clothed in decidedly plebeian apparel, a cheap, oversized cotton T-shirt hanging over outgrown jeans, and his feet are encased in a pair of scuffed sneakers that might have once been white. None of the upper-class, old-money descendants who frequent Diogenes would ever permit their spawn to leave the house in such attire. 

Mycroft stares at the boy, studying him with a critical eye that would make any MI6 agent squirm. The boy - who looks oddly familiar, although Mycroft couldn't place him, perhaps he may be a patron's child after all - stares right back, eyes dilating when he notices that Mycroft is looking at him. A grin explodes across the boy's face, and before Mycroft can wonder why he looks so happy and decide whether it warrants his concern, the boy steps out from behind the chair and launches himself at him.

Then there are two arms circled around around one of Mycroft's own, roping him against the boy's excitedly buzzing body. 

Mycroft wrenches his arm away as if scalded, and he glares down at his assailant. 

The boy must be dense, because he looks at Mycroft with a stupidly happy look on his face, small hands patting at Mycroft's knee. 

Mycroft's scowl intensifies when he realizes that he can't tell the boy to go away. He makes an awkward shooing motion with his hand, hoping that the boy would take the hint and leave him be. He doesn't know why he is here, or even how he managed to sneak past the front desk (he notes this down in the back of his mind for later consideration), let alone why he would think hugging Mycroft is anything but a terrible life choice, but at this point Mycroft just wants him to go away. 

Unfortunately, the boy is not cognizant of the silence mandate. He tilts his head and his lip twitches, and Mycroft knows he's going to speak before it happens. Don't, he thinks, but it's too late. 

“Hi Daddy!” 

For a child, it probably constitutes a whisper, but in Diogenes, the boy's voice is deafening.

Mycroft is vaguely aware of the disgruntled rustling that ripples throughout the room, and he knows that the other patrons are no doubt glaring at him. But his mind is too preoccupied to even purposely ignore them. 

The words echo in Mycroft's head, scrambling his mind and sending his neatly ordered thoughts into disarray. He can't quite bring himself to move, body system frozen in place as his mind whirs on an endless loop. He turns the words over and over in his head, searching for some angle (calculating, cataloging, measuring timeframe and probability) in which they would make sense. Because the simplest answer cannot possibly be true, in this case. 

Well. Even if it is theoretically _possible_ , does not mean it is even remotely probable. 

Right?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a preview of sorts for a fic idea I've had for a very long time. Would people be interested in reading something like this? A Mycroft-centric kidfic, possibly with a side of Mystrade, that's really just an excuse for the author to explore the concept of emotion, specifically the lack thereof and what happens when it clashes with expectations (i.e. you should love your child) and obligations (i.e. you need to love your child/treat them with love).


End file.
